Lay Me Down
by goldnox
Summary: ONE-SHOT/ Damon doesn't want anything to do with Elena, so he says. So she believes. But when he finds her limp body on Whitmore campus after Enzo attacks her, he can't help but to carry her home. It's not the first time he's carried her to safety either. But is Elena unaware of what is happening? Or is she secretly awake, stealing those precious moments while she can? /5x19 /ANGST


**A/N: Aaaaand she's back! I love you guys too much to ever stay away, you know that, right? This is just a single little semi-canon one shot thanks to Episode 5X19, and we are in Elena POV. (I know, right? It's been like, forever since I've written from that girl's POV LOL) **

**SEVERE ANGST WARNING. SERIOUS. Heed my warning, my dears, because I don't want you to get yourself into something you may not like. **

**All my adoration and thanks to Trogdor19 for beta'ing this last night even when she had a billion things to do and was dead tired. You are a wizardress. **

**Enjoy! **

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**Lay Me Down**

I am a liar, a killer. But mostly, I am a thief.

I've stolen light, time, peace and now wishes. Because he doesn't want to see me, hear me, be anywhere near me, but here I am, and he is carrying me.

I don't know for how long my body has been cradled in his arms, or how he found me. What I remember was a rush of air and then hands that I don't trust were wrapped around my neck, and with an apathetic twist, darkness followed a shriek of protesting muscles and splintering bones. The last thought that flickered through me was worry of how Damon would react when he discovered that his best friend had staked me; no question in my mind that I had met my final roadblock in the crooked street of fate.

But I should have known better, because Damon always saves me.

I don't know where he's taking me, and I could open my eyes and breathe his name, move any muscle that would let him know that the things that wouldn't have healed were I still human have come back together; the blood that claims his name flowing through my veins and restoring me seamlessly because without him, I am broken.

But I stay quiet, feigning death so I can steal these minutes.

More than any sound in my life, I need the pulse of his heart, the assured way his boots settle on concrete as if he is returning a promise because it would all crack and crumble and fall away if he wasn't walking on it. And even more than the sound, I need the air of him: the bourbon on his breath and the spice of his cologne, the tinges of a fire he must have built at the boarding house. Sometimes, he doesn't look quite right if he isn't shadowed in flames.

He clears his throat and shifts my weight, holding me a little farther away from him but still holding me, and I want to curl my fingers into the soft fabric of his shirt and press myself back against him, but I don't. My fingers stay limp and lifeless as they dangle, swinging aimlessly with the rhythm of him and I hate it, because I never fight as hard as he needs me to.

I've let his gravity push and pull me, and I resisted. I fought him every step of the way in the long beginning, the days and months and years when he waited and I rejected him, time and time again.

I was a thief then too.

I stole his smiles, selfishly hiding them where no one else saw. I thought I robbed the heartbreak that others forced on him, peeling away the layers that he had crafted until the first glimpse of the man that is underneath began to show his face. I took the hours when he claimed he'd rather be alone, but instead was at my house, in my room, sprawled on my couch or cooking in my kitchen. I hoarded it all and I never gave anything back. Not even after the first time he carried me like this.

Purpose bore me down a dark, back road after metal groaned and tumbled over paved asphalt, glass shattering all around me. Tears unbidden, but unable to be stopped were steadily falling from my eyes because my heart was broken by Stefan's betrayal, and the fear: there was so _much_ of it. Enemies coming at me from every angle and sometimes from underneath, and I had to let go.

So I allowed the peace of numbness to wash over me and it was so serene: the grace from giving up. But before I felt my body land in a sickly heap, skin scraping and tearing because I couldn't care to stand alone anymore, strong arms were under me, lifting me up and taking all that I couldn't bear and placing it on himself.

There was nothing ever so safe as he was that night. And so complicated.

It's a lot like now. I don't need to know where we're going. I don't even really want to. I'd rather just be still and quiet, trusting him to know what to do. And that's so unfair, but I've never been fair.

I've held him to different standards, his right moves and wrong ones weighing more than they do for others as though the pen I write them with in the rule book of my conscience isn't filled with black ink; for him, it is fire red and iron. When he forced his blood on me, desperate to keep me with him even though I wasn't his to have, the entry was heavy: thick with rage and disappointment and laced with treachery and every other awful thing I could accuse him of without feeling guilty for it.

I can hate him more than anyone else.

It is easy, so easy to be angry. But the pendulum of him swings so swift and strong that when it pauses at the height of the arc, as far away from me as I hope it will stay, I'm never quite ready for it to come back again.

I should know better.

Because I can stand still, seeing it hover for a breath before the trajectory changes and then it's barreling towards me faster than I can think and when it grazes me, it's infinite.

A whisper of sorry and forgive me and I never meant to hurt you, a tender brush of his hand on my cheek and his palm smoothing down my hair, his arms protecting me as he carried me away from the sacrifice that he almost died to stop, and it shreds every line of defense I ever hoped to retain.

But it never lasts long enough because the pendulum never stops, heading away again just as quickly as he turns the tides and kills, maims, tortures and breaks my heart.

Just like he broke it yesterday.

I deserved it.

I broke his first.

But I still love him and I know he still loves me, because he just sighed and pulled me closer again, re-positioning me so my head is snuggled on his chest, tucked under his chin. He barely ducks his head and breathes me in, still moving forward, always forward, even when everything else feels unequivocally backward.

I always assumed that if I ever took the risk, made the plunge, closed my eyes and just leaped into him, that it would be the end of everything else. Some people don't love absently, it is all or nothing, now and always and no matter what, and that is _Damon_.

Fierce and unflinching.

But I lost him.

I had it all, everything happy and bright and beautiful, but it was also dark, sexy, dangerous and exciting. The best of both worlds.

It was perfect, but it was too short.

If we could hide from it, the world, the enemies, the threats, I think we would be fine. But we can't disappear and the truth is, neither of us wants to. That's why he and I work, and why we don't. Because we need space and life, people and noise and change. But that is never safe.

He has a past that will never let him rest, scores to be settled, and even those that aren't coming for him, they come after me.

The wars we have waged… It is absurd to think of the power and formidability of the Originals that he challenged on my behalf. How when I was stolen and claimed as a tool for the most powerful creature in the world, Damon spat defiantly in his face and took me back, brought me home. And I never doubted that he would.

I can still feel the needles in my arm, see the compelled faces of the nurses as they stole my blood, and the whole time, I was waiting. Praying to God to send me an angel, the one who thinks himself the devil. And how could he not see the distinction when he never batted an eye at the blood dripping from my veins, and instead scooped me up so gently I barely felt anything other than the comforting ease of the crook of his elbow? Because that's what Damon is: soft where he should be sharp and the opposite in return. Gentle lips concealing razor fangs, light blue eyes that can bring any and all to their knees in fear.

But I remember the feel of his fingertips, pressed into me to make sure I felt secure, and how so incredibly careful he was in their placement on my body. His strides were long and confident, but his breaths were slow, calming, and a lullaby that I soaked up like the rain.

And I knew he was taking me home, because he was my home.

He _is_ my home.

He's the only one I have left.

So often, I miss my house. I miss my room. And he's the only one I've ever told that to because I don't know if I have a right to long for it when it's my fault that it is gone. And he doesn't always understand, but he tries to, and that's what matters to me.

I've told him how much I hated and loved the times when he would sneak in, when my consciousness would surface in the dark nights when I was caught between what was in front of me and what was missing, and he would be there. In my chair, on the window seat, on my bed next to me, and I wouldn't open my eyes because I didn't want him to know that I knew, but I could feel him there and it was so reassuring, more than I could describe, more than I wanted to admit to in the light of day.

For hours I would lay still and quiet, just knowing he was supporting me in the best way he could. In the way I needed, all I could allow. Only twice did I ever see him. He was always so silent, not any trace of a creak in the space he occupied. But one time, he slept. And in sleep his breaths were deeper, an unspoken, accidental oath that he was with me, always.

I dared to peek at him, his legs stretched out on the window seat with his temple resting against the glass, strain and stress bled from his features so that he was soft and hazy, and I remember thinking how young he looked, how unthreatening. So different than when we first met.

But the one night when I opened my eyes and he met my gaze, he was every bit of the predator that tricked his way through my front door, the one who threatened to turn me immortal beside his father's grave.

Head tilted, eyes open, challenging me to ask him to leave, to dare to ask him to stay. I couldn't do either, and he knew, because he smiled at me. Not fully, but just a hint of one where the corner of his lips turns up and I can hardly breathe for wanting it to become complete. But at the same time, all I want to do is stare and memorize it. Because I put it there.

My selfishness with him knows no bounds.

He didn't smile like that for a long time, and that was my fault too. And I knew he loved me, but I let him try to save my relationship with his brother. I didn't stop him when he sat next to me on my bed, promising me that everything would be fine. But he didn't understand that it _wasn't_ because when I took his hand, he caressed mine, but then he let me go.

It hurt so much after the way he carried me from Wickery Bridge, both of us soaking wet and exhausted. And the whole time when we were making our slow way home I felt so awful, knowing I should walk, wishing that for once, I could carry him instead. But I simply laid my head on his shoulder with my arms draped around his neck, listening as he quietly told me to sleep and that we would be there soon. That I was safe. That he wouldn't let anyone hurt me, not even myself.

He carried me, and I cried, for him.

His footsteps suddenly pause and I worry, wondering if I'm caught in my lie, in my theft of his compassion. He has always seen the truth even when I couldn't. But a door opens and he steps us over the threshold, and I swallow the surge of pain that rushes through me as he keeps walking us forward to an end that I don't want to reach, and he never says a word.

I miss his voice.

In the morning it is rough and gritty, pitched low and quiet. Private. And it makes me feel so special because when he talks to everyone else during the day, he never slurs or stumbles. His tone will be clean and sharp, assured in every syllable. And he chooses his words with precision.

His mind speeds, I know it does, because his sarcasm reveals the thought process that precedes every joke he levels. But when we're alone, he talks and talks, random thoughts, musing to himself, debating and teasing and flirting, and I could listen forever. He has so many words in his mind, his heart, but few breach his lips for anyone else to hear because they aren't treated with the respect, the care, that they should.

He doesn't want to talk to me now.

I don't blame him.

I've promised him so many things, and almost all are broken. I promised to be patient, to be understanding, to try not to change him and to not change myself for him. To be free, but also safe.

I have failed him, constantly.

I think that the hardest part for him is the promises that I've kept; the ones he never wanted me to make and begs me to take back. To stop forgiving him, defending him. To stop loving him. But I can't. And it has tangled us into a course that I don't know how to navigate.

Toxic together, devastated apart.

I need him in my life, and not just want, would be convenient to have, a fleeting desire for.

_Need._

And at this point I will take anything I can get.

I'd make more "mistakes." I would. If that's what he wanted until he felt safe to go back to more. But the truth is, that's not enough and it never will be. For me or for him.

Because I need his fingers laced through mine when I'm afraid. His hand on my back when I feel small. I crave the way his eyes light up when I surprise him, a quirk of an eyebrow that mirrors the uptick in his mouth because he thinks I'm funny.

I miss my friend.

But it's too late to go back, and I know that, I do, but I was, _am_, desperate. The bonds are too strong that tie us together, the reality too clear, and as much as I wish I could let him go, I won't.

He's going to have to do it for us.

And he is.

Because he's not taking me back to his car, driving me home to our bed so we can fall into a few stolen hours of denial. I can tell by the whispers of textbook definitions being repeated that we're on the stairwell of my dorm and soon, he's going to leave me.

The realization is crushing.

And now is my time to speak, to cling to him, to come clean in my deceit that for minutes now, I have been aware. That I have been stealing the scent of him, cataloguing the way his hand feels hooked under my knees, his fingers spread out over my shoulder. That I have been soaking in his heartbeat, the rise and fall of his chest and footsteps.

But I am afraid.

If I move too soon he'll be angry with me. As he should. He's probably worried right now, and I'm lying. And I provoke his temper as often as he baits mine, but I don't want to fight anymore. It never ends the way it is supposed to.

So I stay quiet, and I steal.

He stops and shifts, and after the tumbler in the doorknob falls loudly into place, his boot bangs against the wood of the door and the distinctly flowery, sickly sweet and feminine smell of my dorm room washes over me. He doesn't hesitate though the odor burns my nostrils because it isn't the home that I want, and closer to five steps than ten, he stops again.

As gently as possible, he lowers me down.

He takes care for my head to find the pillow first before he trusts my weight to the bed, tenderly shifting me further onto the matters so I'm safe, like always. His hand slides out from behind my knees and with a pressure so light it can't be real, he smoothes his palm over the top of my thighs so my legs relax naturally.

I should open my eyes. I should say something.

He sits beside me, his hand resting casually on the outside of my hip, and I hesitate.

Just a few more seconds and then I'll confess. I will. And I'll ruin it, these precious seconds when I had him with me, when there were no arguments or tears or problems, but I owe him that. He's always wanted, deserved, the truth. I just wish I had the courage to give it.

The back of his knuckles brush over my cheek and it startles me, and when the pad of his thumb sweeps a line over my skin, his touch is so sweet that my eyes sting even while closed, tears brewing under my lashes and I squeeze my eyes tighter shut, swallowing the regret and longing that the gesture brought.

He hasn't touched me like that in so long, too long.

Suddenly his weight disappears from the edge of the bed, a gust of a breeze coming from the window that I could have sworn was closed, and I open my eyes with a gasp.

I look, my eyes searching urgently, but all they see is remorse through tan, billowing curtains.

My secret is safe and I hate it, hate the truth of who I am, the things that I have done. The mistakes that I make. They cost me all, ripping from me the man that I love, and I am so ashamed for my lies, the things I took that I wasn't privileged to.

It was useless. It was all just useless.

Because he carried me, and he laid me gently down, but the truth can't be faked or lied or thieved.

Damon's gone, and he's not coming back.

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_fin_

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**A/N: I know, you hate me. I am evil. But how about this... I promise that soon, hopefully very soon, I will have the first chapter of my new AU/AH story up! Any better? No? Shucks. How about...Trogdor19 is working on a 3 shot based on episode 5x18 that is drop dead gorgeous and you're going to want to frolic in every word. And on top of that, Nightlightbright is coming out with a two shot that is smutty and delicious. See? There is light in the universe! **

**Speaking of universe, you know what the coolest thing in the universe would be? You know how you guys are always so supportive and awesome and simply, wordlessly amazing? Well every word of praise you heap on me really should be directed at my beta, Trogdor19, because I wouldn't be anywhere without her. So what can we do to show our appreciation? Well, let me tell ya! **

**Her original post-apocalyptic novel, Forsworn, has made it to the QUARTERFINALS in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel contest! AMAZING, RIGHT? But she needs your help! (And I need it too, because if we can get her published then she can spend every waking moment beta'ing for me...I mean writing ;) We are asking, begging, bribing all, to please go to Amazon and search "Michelle Hazen Forsworn" and there you can download a sample of the book and then REVIEW! A simple, single line will be so beyond appreciated, because this is what she needs in the help to make it to the semi-finals. And eventually win the contest! (which comes with a lovely little publishing deal. see where we're going with this? lol) **

**Thanks so much to all who have already reviewed her book, because this is what makes this fandom so amazing. The community and support for aspiring writers like us to push out beyond fan fiction and try to turn this into a career. And don't worry, because even if I do hear good news back from the agents I just queried (cross your fingers for me!) and she gets published, we promise that we will ALWAYS write free fan fic. Damon and Elena? There is never enough to say and besides, we adore you guys way too much. Y'all are family, and family comes first. **

**(ENDING WORLD'S LONGEST AUTHOR NOTE)**

**We love you all, and see you soon! (don't forget those follow author buttons so you can get those nice little email notifications as soon as the new stories go up!)**

**-Goldnox**


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